Begin at the beginning, the king said gravely, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Smart Mouth

I have a smart mouth. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have a very stupid mouth, and a smart brain, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have an average mouth, an average brain and a very stupid filter that connects the two.

I have a true skill at talking myself into trouble. In fact, most of the lessons that I learn, and promptly forget have to do with talking to people. Things like, don’t talk to strangers, because talking to strangers leads to them following you, and misinterpreting being friendly with flirting. And stalking you, and breaking into your house, and murdering you in your sleep. But that might just have more to do with being friendly, and growing up in the south where it is perfectly acceptable to be nice to strangers, and waving at people (like cops). Did you know if you are in a city and you wave at a police officer they think you need help? I sure didn’t not when I moved here at least.

Living in DC can be challenging sometimes, and not just because of the city thing, and the talking to strangers thing. But for its own special thing. DC is full of people that think they are important, and people that are actually important, like the President. The President comes with secret service, and they come with road closings and general obstruction of people trying to get from point A to point B, especially when the President departs from his normal routine to do the unthinkable, go out to dinner. Imagine three city blocks in your neighborhood getting shut down, one of these being the street you take every day home from work, because someone wants to eat at a restaurant. This happened the other day as I was on my way to dance class. Luckily I was on foot; un-luckily I was letting my smart mouth have fun.

The roads in the DC/Arlington area do not make sense, to walk from the metro to the dance studio I have to cross what I like to call the scary intersection. Its where five roads intersect, normally this would be a perfect place for a traffic circle, except their isn’t one (see previous comment about roads). One of these roads had been blocked off by the DC/Arlington/METRO/Secret Service police people. They had also roped off the sidewalk on this street, but this street runs alongside a park, which was not blocked off. So I cut through the park on the way to class, even though I don’t have too, but I am curious as to what was going on (I learned later it was because the president). So when I get to the crosswalk to leave the park, and cross the street, away from the blocked off area, I am met by a police officer. The exchange went as follows:

Police Officer: “You are not allowed to be here. You have to cross the street now.”

Me: looking into oncoming traffic, “Can I at least wait until the cars stop coming.”

Police Officer: “You have to cross the street as soon as it is safe to do so. You are not allowed to be here.”

Me: “You know, this side walk isn’t blocked off.”

Police Officer: “It will be blocked off as soon as you cross the street.”

Me: “What is going on?”

Police Officer: “You must cross the street here.” (The light still hadn’t changed)

Me: “Really? I had planned to cross over there,” I reply pointing into the middle of the intersection. (there is no other place to get out of the park, without walking straight into the intersection of death).

Police Officer: (not detecting my obvious sarcasm) “You have to cross the street here. Perhaps if you told me where you are trying to go, I could give you directions.”

Me: “Look, I am just trying to get to my KKK meeting at the coffee shop over there.”

Police Officer: “Cross the street now” (the light had still not changed, but she walked into the street to block oncoming traffic)

True story. I’m not sure where KKK came from, perhaps it was my brain saying, don’t say Al-Kida(sp?), say anything but Al-Kida, so when thinking of groups as hated and as evil as Al-Kida, not Al-Kida, the KKK jumped to my head. Perhaps it would have been better to not say anything at all, but I couldn’t help it. My response to people not getting sarcasm is just to get more sarcastic. It’s a vicious cycle.

Insecure Writers Group

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Story:

I am 25 years old, and have been told more than once, that I have a story to tell, or that I should write a memoir. I am not sure if I belive it, but I do know that I have good days and bad days, and on bad days I have to share, and what could be better than sharing annonomously with the internet world. I am not doing this for sympothy and I am not doing this for money. I am doing this because, I have long lived with the knowledge, that maybe, just maybe, my story could help someone else, like me. Someone going through what I am/did, or contemplating making the mistakes I made, to let people out there know, you are not alone.